Most of the Time
by yomikoreadman
Summary: Faith listens to Dylan and remembers.


Dylan isn't what she was usually into. She'd most often rock out to   
  
Artificial Joy Club, or Kittie, or anything hard enough to make her forget where she was and obscure enough to keep her safely away from trendy. So when all the lights were out in her apartment and she'd smoked enough, she could just… float in the cloud of cigarette and sound and emptiness.   
  
She'd picked up this Bob Dylan CD somewhere, though, and sometimes she wanted to remember. She'd been playing it one night when she and Buffy were winding down from a long night of slayage, and there was laughing, and leftover Chinese, and a late night movie on Skinimax. And somehow they'd ended up on the couch, together, nose to nose, hip to hip, face buried in the crook between neck and shoulder.   
  
/Most of the time  
  
/I'm clear focused all around,  
  
/Most of the time  
  
/I can keep both feet on the ground,  
  
/I can follow the path, I can read the signs,  
  
/Stay right with it, when the road unwinds,  
  
/I can handle whatever I stumble upon,  
  
/I don't even notice she's gone,  
  
/Most of the time.   
  
And the laughter hadn't faded, not once, tho' voices had gotten low and husky. And she remembered relieving the blonde slayer of that little black halter, and seeing the beautiful, smooth expanse of her stomach, and her hand meeting the curve of one breast.   
  
That curve caught her memory, and she traced it in her minds eye, through thin cotton, cradling it and admiring it and holding it, covered, uncovered, bare and then her tongue traced that nub. It circled around and flicked it, and when she bit, so gently, she marveled at finally having a lover as strong as she, one that could buck and tumble her off the couch and to the ground.   
  
And the rest of the clothing was discarded, there, until skin on skin, thigh on thigh, they wrestled and growled and played, they touched and stroked and kissed. Fingers down the spine, slowly. Along the inside of her thighs. Nuzzling curls, smelling need, tasting salt and something smoky and dark and entirely unique. In the morning, a rush, a few words, and a headache after she was gone.   
  
/Most of the time  
  
/It's well understood,  
  
/Most of the time  
  
/I wouldn't change it if I could,  
  
/I can't make it all match up, I can hold my own,  
  
/I can deal with the situation right down to the bone,  
  
/I can survive, I can endure  
  
/And I don't even think about herBR/Most of the time.   
  
She clung to the thoughts of it, expecting that it'd never happen again. But the night after, she'd found herself pressed to a brick wall, soft lips on hers, found herself calling out again, begging, found herself at home, curled around a warm body, face pressed into blonde hair that smelled of lavender and slay-dust. The first time, she simply closed her eyes and slept.   
  
The second time, the third, blending into the next month, that's when she began to panic. The two of them, they hid it, of course – who would understand, really, if they weren't a slayer? It was only the slayers that knew the inescapable drive – Death. Food. Sex. Again.   
  
  
  
Again.   
  
Again.   
  
The best nights, of course, were the ones when Faith fell asleep first. She would wake up still cradled in someone's arms, held and loved and for one brief second, she wouldn't be desperate to leave before she was left. And then reality would come crashing down – her lover would stir, a bit, the sunlight come through the blinds – and panic would squeeze up in her chest, and she knew, she knew, that she'd have to make her leave.   
  
/Most of the time  
  
/My head is on straight,  
  
/Most of the time  
  
/I'm strong enough not to hate.  
  
/I don't build up illusion 'till it makes me sick,  
  
/I ain't afraid of confusion no matter how thick  
  
/I can smile in the face of mankind.  
  
/Don't even remember what her lips felt like on mine  
  
/Most of the time.   
  
So then there was the first fight. And the second. Screaming and shouting and that one, final, painful time when she watched, almost separated from herself, as her hand reeled back and plummeted forward and struck her lover.   
  
She'd known exactly what she was doing. She knew she had to leave first, quickly, before she was left again and it hurt so much she had to burn herself up. She had to make it stop, and Buffy, she was a strong girl. She didn't get gone as fast as some of the others. But Faith was good. She knew how to hurt and she knew how to push. Eventually, she got her way.   
  
/Most of the time  
  
/She ain't even in my mind,  
  
/I wouldn't know her if I saw her  
  
/She's that far behind.  
  
/Most of the time  
  
/I can't even be sure  
  
/If she was ever with me  
  
/Or if I was with her.   
  
She'd had something wonderfully, terribly good. And she screwed it up, somewhere. She knew she'd done it, and she even remembered the reasons why, and how she had to push her away, fast, before she got hurt. She knew that she was bad news, and it was better this way. In the end, it was right, what had happened, and she was certain her love, her lover, was better for it. Even if she was with that farm boy, now. He's good for her, right? And Faith was good alone.   
  
/Most of the time  
  
/I'm halfway content,  
  
/Most of the time  
  
/I know exactly where I went,  
  
/I don't cheat on myself, I don't run and hide,  
  
/Hide from the feelings, that are buried inside,  
  
/I don't compromise and I don't pretend,  
  
/I don't even care if I ever see her again  
  
/Most of the time.   
  
She was fine alone. Really.   
  
So, usually she didn't dig Dylan.   
  
  
  
Sometimes, tho', she put it on `cause she wanted to remember. 


End file.
